The Last Town
Page 20
“No, I just invited it to happen.”
“Kate and Harold would be dead.”
“Harold probably is anyway.”
“You can’t look at it that way—”
“I f**ked up, baby.”
“You gave these people their freedom.”
“And I’m sure they really had a chance to savor it as the abbies were tearing their throats out.”
“I know you, Ethan. No, look at me.” She turned his chin toward her. “I know you. I know you only did what you believed was right.”
“I wish we lived in a world where actions were measured by the intentions behind them. But the truth is, they’re measured by their consequences.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I just need to tell you, I need you to know, that I feel closer to you right now—on the brink of dying—than I have in years. Maybe ever. I trust you now, Ethan. I know you love me. I’m starting to see it like I haven’t before.”
“I do, Theresa. So much. You are . . . everything.” He kissed her and she leaned into him, resting her head against the side of his shoulder.
He put his arm around her.
Soon, she was asleep.
He looked around.
The collective grief was a tangible thing. It seemed to weigh down the air with a thickness like water or dense smoke.
His hands grew cold. He dug his right one into the pocket of his parka. His fingers touched the memory shard that contained the footage of David Pilcher murdering his own daughter. Grasping it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, an H-bomb of rage blossomed in his gut.
Ted had copies of this footage as well, and Ethan had told him not to do anything with it. To stand by. But that was before the abby invasion. Did Ted know what was happening in Wayward Pines?
Ethan ran another headcount.
Still ninety-six.
Such frailty.
He thought of Pilcher, sitting in the warmth and safety of his office, watching on his two hundred sixteen flatscreens as the people he had kidnapped in another lifetime were massacred.
Voices roused him.
Ethan opened his eyes.
Theresa was stirring beside him.
The quality of the light hadn’t changed, but it felt much later. Like he’d been asleep for days.
Gently lifting Ben’s head off his lap, he stood and rubbed his eyes.
People were up and moving around.
Near the door, voices were raised.
He saw two separate groups, with Kate standing between Hecter and another man.
Both men were yelling.
He walked over, caught Kate’s eye.
She said, “We have some people who want to go outside.”
A man named Ian, who owned a shoe-repair store on Main called The Cobbler’s Shoppe, said, “My wife is out there. We were separated when the four groups were forming.”
“And you want to do what exactly?” Ethan asked.
“I want to help her! What do you think?”
“So go.”
“He also wants a gun,” Kate said.
A woman who worked in the community gardens pushed past several people and glared at Ethan. “My son and my husband are out there.”
Kate said, “You understand my husband is too?”
“So why are we hiding in here instead of rescuing them?”
Hecter said, “You’d be dead within ten minutes of leaving this cavern.”
“That’s my choice, pal,” Ian said.
“You aren’t taking a gun.”
Ethan broke in: “Hold on just a minute. This is a conversation for everyone.”
He walked into the middle of the room, and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Circle up! We need to talk!”
The crowd slowly converged, bleary-eyed, bedraggled.
“I know it’s been a hard night,” he said.
Silence.
He sensed anger and blame in the eyes that watched him.
Wondered how much of it was truly there, how much he imagined.
“I know you’re all worried about those who didn’t make it in here. I am too. We barely made it ourselves. And some of you may be wondering why we didn’t stop and help. I can tell you right now that if we had, this would be an empty cavern, and we’d all be dead in that valley. That’s hard to hear. As the man responsible for us being in this situation . . .”
Emotion reared its head.
He let the tears come, let the tremor disrupt his voice.
“From my place at the back of the line,” he said, “I saw what was happening to our people above ground. I know what these aberrations are capable of. And I think we all need to start coming to terms with a hard, hard truth. There’s a chance we’re all that’s left of Wayward Pines.”
Someone yelled, “Don’t say that!”
A man stepped into the circle. He was an officer of the fête, still dressed in black, still carrying his machete. Ethan had never exchanged words with him, but he knew where he lived, that he worked at the library. He was slim and fit, with a shaved head and faint stubble across his jawline. He also carried that whiff of unearned arrogance that seems to cling to those who crave authority for the sheer sake of power.
The officer said, “I tell you what you do. You get on your hands and knees and crawl back to Pilcher and beg the man’s forgiveness. Tell him you did this. Tell him you brought this shitstorm down on our heads all on your very own and that we want to go back to the way things were. That none of us signed up for this.”
“It’s too late,” Ethan said. “You all know the truth now. You can’t unknow it. There’s no easy way out of this.”
A short, squat man—the town butcher—pushed his way into the circle.
He said, “You’re telling me my wife and daughters are dead. That at least a dozen dear friends of mine are dead. So what are you saying we do about it? Hide in here like a bunch of cowards and write them off?”
Ethan moved toward him, his jaw tensing. “I am not saying that, Andrew. I am not saying we write anybody off.”
“Then what? What are we supposed to do? You pulled the wool away from our eyes. But for what? To lose most of our people and live like this? I’d rather be enslaved. I’d rather be safe and have my family.”
Ethan stopped a foot away from the man. He scanned all the faces, found Theresa’s. She was crying. She was sending him love. “I may have fired the opening shot,” he said, “but I didn’t turn off the fence, and I didn’t open the gate. The man responsible for the deaths of our families and our friends, for you even being in Wayward Pines in the first place, is alive and well two miles from where we stand. And my question for you is: Are you going to stand for that?”
“Kate and Harold would be dead.”
“Harold probably is anyway.”
“You can’t look at it that way—”
“I f**ked up, baby.”
“You gave these people their freedom.”
“And I’m sure they really had a chance to savor it as the abbies were tearing their throats out.”
“I know you, Ethan. No, look at me.” She turned his chin toward her. “I know you. I know you only did what you believed was right.”
“I wish we lived in a world where actions were measured by the intentions behind them. But the truth is, they’re measured by their consequences.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I just need to tell you, I need you to know, that I feel closer to you right now—on the brink of dying—than I have in years. Maybe ever. I trust you now, Ethan. I know you love me. I’m starting to see it like I haven’t before.”
“I do, Theresa. So much. You are . . . everything.” He kissed her and she leaned into him, resting her head against the side of his shoulder.
He put his arm around her.
Soon, she was asleep.
He looked around.
The collective grief was a tangible thing. It seemed to weigh down the air with a thickness like water or dense smoke.
His hands grew cold. He dug his right one into the pocket of his parka. His fingers touched the memory shard that contained the footage of David Pilcher murdering his own daughter. Grasping it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, an H-bomb of rage blossomed in his gut.
Ted had copies of this footage as well, and Ethan had told him not to do anything with it. To stand by. But that was before the abby invasion. Did Ted know what was happening in Wayward Pines?
Ethan ran another headcount.
Still ninety-six.
Such frailty.
He thought of Pilcher, sitting in the warmth and safety of his office, watching on his two hundred sixteen flatscreens as the people he had kidnapped in another lifetime were massacred.
Voices roused him.
Ethan opened his eyes.
Theresa was stirring beside him.
The quality of the light hadn’t changed, but it felt much later. Like he’d been asleep for days.
Gently lifting Ben’s head off his lap, he stood and rubbed his eyes.
People were up and moving around.
Near the door, voices were raised.
He saw two separate groups, with Kate standing between Hecter and another man.
Both men were yelling.
He walked over, caught Kate’s eye.
She said, “We have some people who want to go outside.”
A man named Ian, who owned a shoe-repair store on Main called The Cobbler’s Shoppe, said, “My wife is out there. We were separated when the four groups were forming.”
“And you want to do what exactly?” Ethan asked.
“I want to help her! What do you think?”
“So go.”
“He also wants a gun,” Kate said.
A woman who worked in the community gardens pushed past several people and glared at Ethan. “My son and my husband are out there.”
Kate said, “You understand my husband is too?”
“So why are we hiding in here instead of rescuing them?”
Hecter said, “You’d be dead within ten minutes of leaving this cavern.”
“That’s my choice, pal,” Ian said.
“You aren’t taking a gun.”
Ethan broke in: “Hold on just a minute. This is a conversation for everyone.”
He walked into the middle of the room, and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Circle up! We need to talk!”
The crowd slowly converged, bleary-eyed, bedraggled.
“I know it’s been a hard night,” he said.
Silence.
He sensed anger and blame in the eyes that watched him.
Wondered how much of it was truly there, how much he imagined.
“I know you’re all worried about those who didn’t make it in here. I am too. We barely made it ourselves. And some of you may be wondering why we didn’t stop and help. I can tell you right now that if we had, this would be an empty cavern, and we’d all be dead in that valley. That’s hard to hear. As the man responsible for us being in this situation . . .”
Emotion reared its head.
He let the tears come, let the tremor disrupt his voice.
“From my place at the back of the line,” he said, “I saw what was happening to our people above ground. I know what these aberrations are capable of. And I think we all need to start coming to terms with a hard, hard truth. There’s a chance we’re all that’s left of Wayward Pines.”
Someone yelled, “Don’t say that!”
A man stepped into the circle. He was an officer of the fête, still dressed in black, still carrying his machete. Ethan had never exchanged words with him, but he knew where he lived, that he worked at the library. He was slim and fit, with a shaved head and faint stubble across his jawline. He also carried that whiff of unearned arrogance that seems to cling to those who crave authority for the sheer sake of power.
The officer said, “I tell you what you do. You get on your hands and knees and crawl back to Pilcher and beg the man’s forgiveness. Tell him you did this. Tell him you brought this shitstorm down on our heads all on your very own and that we want to go back to the way things were. That none of us signed up for this.”
“It’s too late,” Ethan said. “You all know the truth now. You can’t unknow it. There’s no easy way out of this.”
A short, squat man—the town butcher—pushed his way into the circle.
He said, “You’re telling me my wife and daughters are dead. That at least a dozen dear friends of mine are dead. So what are you saying we do about it? Hide in here like a bunch of cowards and write them off?”
Ethan moved toward him, his jaw tensing. “I am not saying that, Andrew. I am not saying we write anybody off.”
“Then what? What are we supposed to do? You pulled the wool away from our eyes. But for what? To lose most of our people and live like this? I’d rather be enslaved. I’d rather be safe and have my family.”
Ethan stopped a foot away from the man. He scanned all the faces, found Theresa’s. She was crying. She was sending him love. “I may have fired the opening shot,” he said, “but I didn’t turn off the fence, and I didn’t open the gate. The man responsible for the deaths of our families and our friends, for you even being in Wayward Pines in the first place, is alive and well two miles from where we stand. And my question for you is: Are you going to stand for that?”
